A Semi-attractive Mind in Dire Need of a Makeover
by FaithAnne
Summary: Buffy loses her grip on reality but is odds on to win the Nobel Prize


Buffy walked slowly up the stairs and into her room. She felt disorientated, detached. She looked up as Willow walked in.  
  
"Hey Buffy, how was the movie? Any gayness in it?"  
  
Buffy turned coldly away from her. "I know you're not real. You're just a figment of my imagination. You're gay, and you don't exist. I have to ignore you if I want to stay sane." She started to walk back downstairs.  
  
Willow stared after her in horror, tears filling her gay eyes. "Oh no, Buffy! Don't tell me Warren's worked his mojo on you again! You're not in an asylum Buffy, you're here in Sunnydale. It's real, we're all real! You're Buffy! I'm your gay friend Willow, a lesbian who's gay!"  
  
"Save your breath" sneered Dawn as she flounced in. "It's all your fault - you're the one who bought her the gift certificate to Sunnydale Cinema. Remember the other week when she saw Bambi? She attacked those duck hunters who she thought killed Mom, and we had to live with that talking skunk and bunny for a week. But hey, at least we got rid of Anya!. Well she's been to see 'A Beautiful Mind' and as usual, it was all about her. She'll probably be splitting the atom by dinner time..."  
  
Later that day, Buffy pushed back her thick-rimmed nerd glasses, adjusted her tweed skirt and knocked on Dawn's bedroom door.  
  
"Get out! Get out! GET OUT!" shrieked Dawn, then a cheery "Come in!"  
  
Buffy walked in, looking around nervously for any phantom friends that might be hovering, and noticed with her heightened genius sense of perception that Dawn was stuffing something into an intricately carved antique wooden box, which she shoved under her bed.   
  
"Watcha got there Dawnie?" she asked in her most un-paranoid manner.   
  
"Er, nothing. Nothing at all. I don't know what you're talking about. You must be imagining it."  
  
"Hmm, quite possible in my delusional state. But I really believe that you were putting something in that box."  
  
"This isn't really a wooden box. I made it in gym class out of papier-mache and some of that plastic wood grain Riley had left over from making those hilarious practical joke stakes he used to trick Spike."  
  
"I know you're hiding something from me Dawn. You're always hiding something. Everyone is. Hiding, whispering, plotting against me..."  
  
Dawn reluctantly pulled the box out and pushed it a couple of inches closer to where Buffy was standing in her sensible maths-genius shoes. "Um, it's just some junk I made in art class today."  
  
"Dawn, you know I've always tried to encourage your creativity, so that one day you too can be tragic and tortured and the filmed version of the story of your life will go on to win many awards. Possibly not the best actor Oscar; definitely not an Emmy. But please show me the fruits of the first flowering of your artistic expression."  
  
"Look, it's just some - um, crappy junk jewellery I made out of - er, silver paint and papier-mache. Nothing to get excited about."  
  
"Let me be the judge of that. I am a genius after all" Buffy took a heavy medallion with strange carved runes on it and instinctively calculated the total mass multiplied by volume displacement. The fact that none of this made any sense and that she did not know a single thing about even the most basic arithmetic did not deter her. She took out her notebook and 4-coloured pen and jotted down some random brainiac thoughts: try not to be invisible this week; fix the pipes in the basement; punch Spike then jump his dead sexy bones; don't count on a career as a professional singer.  
  
"This is a very authentic looking replica. You must have worked so hard to make it look real. I'm glad you're making an effort at school, especially considering how difficult it must be for you with my, um, you know, condition."  
  
"Yeah right, your condition. Whatever."  
  
"Look Dawn, I know it's not easy, but think of how hard it is for me. For instance, I'm convinced that there's a soft Italian hand-stitched leather coat sticking out of your schoolbag, but I know it's not real. How could a snotty teenager afford something so exquisite?"  
  
"Oh, that. I um, made that in, um chemistry class out of, um, magnesium sulphate and um, papier-mache."  
  
"Wow, I'm so glad you're doing well in chemistry. Maybe you'll win a Nobel Prize too someday. But what about that grimy 19th century urchin I see poking his head out of your closet? Don't tell me that's not a figment of my imagination!"  
  
"Oh, that's just my new boyfriend Fingers. He's been dead for like, ages, and he's really cool and knows how to slip his hand into someone's back pocket and... um, he's really good at making papier-mache. We're going down to the mall to steal - I mean, express ourselves creatively."  
  
"Sounds great. Well, bye! I need to go and write another paper for New Scientist."  
  
Willow came back from the supermarket with a crate of bottled water to help battle her secret magic addiction which at least 3 people in Sunnydale still knew nothing about. She found Buffy sitting at the dining room table, surrounded by heavy books.  
  
"Doing some research Buffy? What's the big bad this time?"  
  
"No, phantom gay friend, I'm just making notes for the lecture I'm giving at MIT next week. Please don't distract me with your imaginary conversation."  
  
"Buffy, you do realise you're studying the phone book?"  
  
The tortured genius picked up her calculator and quickly keyed in a few digits to multiply the hypothetical velocity of the speed of a stake to the impact of a vamp...  
  
"Buffy, that's the remote control" Willow said, gently removing it from her grasp.  
  
Buffy shuffled some papers. "Look, I've worked it out. Having devised many complicated theorems, I've come to the conclusion that no REAL person would wear such evil, ugly clothes. Do you think I'd associate with someone dressed in tragic rejects from my grandma's garage sale from 1976? Don't try and fool me, you gay figment of my imagination."  
  
Willow stood still, shocked. "You know, you've got a point. That actually makes sense. OK, gotta go be gay now! Call me when you get your sanity back."  
  
Buffy was just about to get stuck into some more research from "The World's Greatest Ever Recipes" when she heard the sound of a parrot squawking. Spike burst into the room, wearing an eyepatch and a tri-corn hat. He had wisely decided not to go with the wooden leg - a big fat splinter could wreak merry havoc on a vampire, if accidentally stuck in a sexy bare chest.  
  
"AAARRRRR, me hearties! Kedgeree and rum! It is I, Blondbeard, come to rape and pillage and sink lots of piss! AARRRRR!!!"  
  
"So you're back from adventuring on the high seas? How'd that work out for you?"  
  
"Well pet, that would have been too much bloody trouble, so as usual I took the easy way out and went to see a jolly tar movie at Sunnydale Cinema last night. Horatio Hornblower. Problem was, I saw the 1950's version with Gregory Peck, so it hasn't helped my accent much at all. But I think I've cornered the market in dashing, and you should see the eyebrow acting techniques I've mastered. Anyway, I've decided this whole pirate thing's just too much bollocky hard work, and I can brush up on my accent by watching the BBC. So, are you up for a 5 hour marathon of Pride and Prejudice...?"  
  
Buffy took the pencil tucked into the librarian bun sitting demurely at the nape of her neck, licked the tip then broke it with one hand. "Oh, what the hell, this academic stuff sucks. Let's go get tanked on whiskey and beat each other up before we shag all night. Did you know my best friend's gay...?"  
  
Next episode: Spike wears a cravat in his attempts to woo Buffy; Buffy carries a parasol in her attempts to ward off unladylike freckles; Dawn runs off with a bounder and Buffy hosts a ball to celebrate; Willow dances the minuet with a girl but nobody suspects she's gay because that sort of thing doesn't exist in polite circles; Xander has trouble fitting into his topcoat and pantaloons. 


End file.
